


Disloyalty of the Heart

by kianspo



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Pike has never been in love. He doesn't have much to go by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disloyalty of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Disloyalty of the Heart 心不由己](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541785) by [Yaegaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaegaki/pseuds/Yaegaki)



> Archive warnings don't apply, but I thought I should warn people that the story contains an implication of a mild dub-con situation (non-descriptive).
> 
> Also, this was written as a Christmas gift for kamiyo and on her prompt.
> 
> Beta read by the amazing secret-chord25. Thank you, Molly.

 

It’s late in the ship’s night when Chris enters Sickbay. The lights are dimmed so as to not disturb the resting patients; Chris inadvertently adopts a more cautious step, scanning the room for any signs of his CMO.

 

“Captain.”

 

Chris all but jumps, whirling around to face the man in question.

 

“Dammit, Phil,” he mutters in response to the doctor’s raised eyebrows. “Are you actually _trying_ to give me a heart attack?”

 

“Of course,” Phil Boyce drawls, his sarcasm toned down in deference to his patients. “How else will I have anything to do around here?”

 

Chris glances around the overcrowded Sickbay. “So what’s the butcher’s bill?”

 

Phil cringes. “I hate it when you quote O’Brian at me; usually means we’re in deep shit.” Chris tosses an exasperated look at his CMO, who rubs at his forehead. “Six dead and thirty-one wounded, fourteen critically; those damn poison bombs did one hell of a job. I need to get them to a Starbase ASAP.” The doctor looks at his captain pointedly. “We don’t have enough staff and equipment to handle this many casualties.”

 

Chris nods, his insides going cold at the numbers. He’s been captain for more than ten years now, but he’ll never get used to this.

 

“Chris,” Phil says, a lower cadence readying Chris for what he’s about to hear.

 

Chris nods again, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I know he was with the last group.” _The one they had given up on_. “How is he?”

 

“He’ll make it.” Phil shakes his head, his frown deepening. “But Chris, he _jumped_ at the thing; one of the women he pulled through told me. He went back after the order to beam up, the only one who did. He got back seven of them – hell if I know how he led them through the minefield with those things just popping up from subspace. He’s damn lucky he wasn’t fast enough only once.”

 

Chris grits his teeth and nods. He’s already heard the story from Number One and one of the survivors.

 

“Can I—?”

 

“Over there.” Phil waves his hand with a sigh. “Go easy on him; I’ve already given him the lecture.”

 

“For all the good they usually do him,” Chris grumbles.

 

He crawls quietly to the other side of the room, peering behind a privacy screen before actually stepping in. He takes a deep breath; _he can do this._

 

Lying on the bed, Spock looks oddly stiff, staring into space with a frightening air of indifferent stillness. Chris’s heart clenches. Usually, no matter what he’s doing, asleep or awake, Spock looks like poetry in motion.

 

“Captain.” Spock breaks from his rigidity, blinking and staring at Chris as his eyes mercifully regain some measure of life.

 

“I am so mad at you.” It’s out of Chris’s mouth before he knows it.

 

Spock blinks again. “I—”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Spock obeys, eyes downcast, allowing Chris to marvel yet again – _will he ever get tired of this?_ – at the spectacularly rich black eyelashes that usually suggest a soft, slightly naïve expression to Spock’s face.

 

“Since when are you too good to take orders, huh?” Chris prods him in angry whisper.

 

Spock looks up at him quickly, a maddening cocktail of remorse and defiance splashing in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Chris with this unbearable _‘I’m-sorry-I upset-you-but-I-don’t-regret-my-actions-you-can-yell-at-me-if-you-want’_ expression, which Chris thinks should be illegal.

 

“You crazy, crazy boy, Spock,” Chris whispers, hating his own weakness. “You could have died today, you understand that?”

 

Spock’s voice is pitched low, gentle. “That did not happen.”

 

Then his fingers close around Chris’s wrist, and Chris feels his heart clench again, painfully; because Spock coughs, quiet and trying to stifle it, and he’s making an awful wheezing sound as he draws air into his lungs with desperate effort. Chris squeezes Spock’s hand in his and leans over him, putting his free hand on Spock’s shoulder lightly.

 

“Are you in pain? Should I call Phil?”

 

Spock coughs again, curtly, and manages to give a tiny shake of his head.

 

“He said – that would happen… Normal,” he pushes out breathlessly.

 

Chris closes his eyes, still looming over Spock, listening intently as his breathing returns to a calmer pattern.

 

“Chris,” Spock rasps. Chris looks at him. “I will be all right.”

 

He means this as a reassurance, Chris can tell, but he sounds as if he’s in wretched need of one himself.

 

“Of course you will be,” Chris agrees, bringing the hand he’s still holding to his lips. “I can’t throw a sick man in the brig, and you’re _so_ ending up there; have no doubts, my mutinous friend.”

 

His tired, slightly panicked humor is rewarded by an arched eyebrow and rekindled warmth in those bottomless dark eyes.

 

“I never doubt you, Captain.”

 

“Good.” Chris nods and kisses the hand before laying it carefully along Spock’s side. “Then it’s a date: you, me, and the security restraints.”

 

Spock’s eyes widen slightly, and Chris laughs softly. He really shouldn’t, but he can’t help it, so he reaches and runs his fingers through Spock’s hair once.

 

“Pleasant dreams,” he whispers, feeling Spock hum quietly in response.

 

***

 

Their first time together, Spock was still a cadet, Chris a substitute field instructor. Spock’s lips were trembling as Chris kissed him, their hands and faces wet with a nasty mixture of rain and snow pouring down on the training ground. Chris had forgotten himself completely. One hand was twisted in Spock’s wet hair and the other held his jaw as Chris kissed him greedily, insensitive to anything but the burning intensity of his desire. Spock tried to pull away almost timidly, but Chris wouldn’t let him, and Spock wouldn’t use more force against a superior officer.

 

All at once, it dawned on him what he was doing, and he jerked himself away, staring at Spock in horror. Spock just stood there, lips still parted and swollen slightly with his eyes wide and troubled. He didn’t look like the composed Vulcan kid Chris got used to seeing in his class one bit. Chris groaned, muttering apologies and finally stumbling away on wobbly legs. He had never lost control of himself like that. _Never._ If Spock wanted to file a sexual harassment complaint against him, Chris wasn’t going to challenge.

 

Spock didn’t. Instead, two days later, Chris received a written notification that Cadet Spock was no longer part of his training group. Chris was asked to leave from three bars in a row that night after he had exceeded his drinking quota.

 

Three days after that, he found Spock waiting for him at the door of his temporary quarters. Chris let him in, hands shaking on the lock as he entered his code. He couldn’t utter a word.

 

Spock was talking. He was saying something about meditation, telling Chris some long-winded stuff about the balance between the spiritual and the physical and how it had gotten Spock confused. Chris thought that it was no wonder, because it sounded confusing enough to wham Buddha, but he wasn’t really listening. He was watching Spock move around his small room, watching Spock’s lips form polysyllabic words that most cadets had never heard of, watching Spock’s eyes gleam with something Chris couldn’t come close to identifying.

 

He didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, in the middle of it all, he ended up kissing Spock, making it as fierce as the first time. Spock’s lips were trembling again, but this time was different because Spock was returning the kiss. Hesitantly, uncertainly – as if he was treading on ice – but Spock _was_ kissing him back.

 

Chris felt dizzy and overcome at the thought that he might be the first one who kissed Spock like that, the first one who got to touch him so intimately, the first one to – _make love to him_. His own first experience awkward enough, Chris was never much into virgins, was smart enough to enjoy the benefits of practice, so he didn’t know, couldn’t come close to guessing where that mad rush of possessiveness was coming from. Just the _thought_ of someone else seeing Spock’s pale skin flushed like that, tasting it, hearing those barely audible sounds made Chris hyperventilate…

 

But it was unlikely, he knew – reasoned it with the miniscule part of his brain that hadn’t been consumed by lust. No one who had the right to touch Spock like that would ever let him go. No one in their right mind, that was for sure.

 

He realized this at the same moment he was hit by another revelation. Spock had transferred off his group not because he didn’t want to see Chris anymore – but exactly so he could. Spock wanted him, he just couldn’t say it. But he didn’t have to – he was here, after all. He had come to Chris of his own free will, and damn if the thought wasn’t making Chris high.

 

Vulcan virgins, Chris had discovered, were very different from human ones – or maybe Spock simply was a natural. Chris was far from being capable of enough coherent reasoning to remember about touch-telepathy just then. Spock reminded him, three hours – and rounds – later, blushing furiously as he explained how he knew certain things so exactly. Chris kissed him breathless for it and called him a cheater and got an impish eyebrow in response.

 

 ***

“I’m still mad at you,” he tells Spock, as the Vulcan is entering his quarters four days later at four minutes to midnight.

 

Spock still looks awfully pale, and somehow he seems to have lost weight during his time in Sickbay. He hesitates just inside the door, ostensibly calm, but to Chris’s trained eye, very much uncertain if he’s welcome. Chris sighs.

 

“Come here.”

 

Spock walks toward him, all soft padding and feline grace. _Effortless._ People who bump into furniture and don’t know what to do with their hands must hate Spock with a passion.

 

As soon as he’s within reach, Chris pulls him close and holds him, tightly but wary of Spock’s still-sensitive ribcage. In a moment, he feels Spock complete the embrace and relax slightly against Chris.

 

Later, as they’re settled in Chris’s larger-than-standard bed, with Chris’s arm around his waist and Chris’s body pressed against his back, Spock starts talking. In the darkness. Chris already knows if he’s ever going to hear the more emotional side of Spock, it will be when the lights are out. It won’t be much, it never is. Sparse words, and sometimes, rarely, a mental image.

 

“I could not leave them,” Spock whispers. “Their chance of survival was less than one point four percent.”

 

_And what was yours?_ Chris wants to ask him, but doesn’t; just pulls Spock closer.

 

Spock never bothers with his own chances; Chris has long since learned that. He’s teasing death, reckless young thing that he is, and only thinks of his life as a mathematical probability. Chris has yet to discover a way to convince him otherwise.

 

He doesn’t know who screwed up so badly. He knows next to nothing about Spock’s parents; only the facts from the official bio file. And asking Spock about his childhood is about as productive as playing racquetball – no matter how much you sweat, the wall keeps returning your serves, adding nothing; only the angles change, infinitely.

 

Sometimes the dichotomy hits Chris with a vengeance. He had gotten so incredibly close to Spock, had literally been inside him; he’d seen the side of him Spock never showed anyone else – and still Chris could get no closer.

 

He tries not to think about it, but it haunts him. Spock is always there, _right there_, and just out of reach. He’s elusive, like a silhouette spotted out of the corner of one’s eye; look at it directly, and it’s gone.

 

Spock falls asleep in Chris’s arms, his breathing still mildly uneasy. Chris gives him some room but keeps close, rubbing circles on Spock’s back almost unconsciously.

 

***

They were together for almost two years when Chris realized that his despicable, crazy crush on a cadet wasn’t a crush at all. Three portions of this realization had caught Chris completely off guard.

 

The first came when he saw Spock leaving the labs with that cute blond assistant biologist – Sheila or Leila, something like that. Spock mentioned her once while talking about his work at the labs, but Chris was too distracted cataloguing the amount of work Spock seemed to be doing on a daily basis to pay attention. Because seriously – Spock was on a short track at the Academy, was a TA to four different professors, had a _double_ _major,_ for crying out loud, and worked with the terraformers here at the labs, referring to it as ‘recreation time.’ Spock apparently considered picking up a yet-unknown-to-him field of study as a hobby that helped him unwind.

 

The Sheila/Leila was laughing infectiously, batting her eyes at Spock as she made her beautiful golden hair shine brighter in the sun. Women always knew how to do that. Spock’s face was his usual non-expression, but Chris knew him well by then. He could tell Spock was amused and whatever it was the girl was saying Spock obviously found it interesting.

 

_I’m jealous_, Chris realized, stunned. Whenever he gave himself the time to dwell on the nature of whatever it was he and Spock were having, he always thought of it as a mere fling; a harmless infatuation. Why was he seeing green at the thought that Spock might prefer to follow this sweet young thing into her room that night rather than coming to Chris – and would be free to do so?

 

Spock showed up on time, of course, looked at Chris strangely, said, ‘You look tired, Captain,’ and then proceeded with one of his infamous full body massages, which he called Vulcan neuropressure and Chris called a fire-escape-to-hell. He couldn’t resist Spock’s hands on him like that, ever. He couldn’t think of anyone who could. Spock made him achingly hard that night, keeping him on the brink till Chris thought he’d explode – and he almost did in the end, at the sight of Spock’s graceful submission.

 

The second portion came when Spock got hurt during a training exercise. They were practicing with phase grenades and someone screwed up and Spock happened to stand the closest to the explosion. Chris paced his quarters like a starved tiger, too furious to think straight. He cursed the fact that he couldn’t even go to the infirmary and sit at Spock’s bedside; cursed the idiot instructor who allowed the cadets to practice with real weapons before they were ready; cursed Spock incessantly for even signing up for the damn course of battlefield training – because what kind of commander would use him as cannon meat anyway?

 

The two weeks while Spock was recovering and then catching up and didn’t come to Chris were the longest and the darkest in Chris’s life, and that included the time when they lost the _Kelvin_. Spock should quit Starfleet. He was a scientist, he belonged in a lab – _or Monet’s painting_ – Starfleet was too dangerous a place for him. Spock must quit, Chris reasoned. It was only logical.

 

By the time Spock did appear in his quarters, Chris had mostly come to his senses. He even told Spock off jokingly for not being quick enough to duck. But the memory of his panic attack lingered unpleasantly for a while, twirling in his gut like a bundle of snakes.

 

And then the final epiphany came. His ship was ready for the relaunch after being refitted: a moment Chris had been waiting for, for a long time. However, as the day grew nearer, he became gloomier and antsier by the hour. Leaving Earth meant leaving Spock.

 

Chris tried to be nonchalant about it, even brazen. After all, it wasn’t as if he promised Spock anything. They were lovers, nothing more. And if Spock became quieter and shier and so much more openly grateful for every gesture of affection Chris graced him with those days, Chris told himself that it had no effect on him whatsoever.

 

Spock had never once asked him for anything. He didn’t come to the pre-launch ceremony in hangar one. They didn’t discuss it, but Chris was waiting for him. He was thinking a handshake, some ‘thank you for everything’ words – maybe even a goodbye kiss in some dark corner because Chris was feeling magnanimous.

 

Spock didn’t show up. The last shuttle was taking off, and he still wasn’t there.

 

Up on the ship, Chris was stunned to realize how badly he wanted to see Spock that one last time. He was caught completely off guard by the sense of betrayal he felt. That insolent, ungrateful, _spoiled_ boy, who didn’t even have the decency to come say goodbye. So what if Chris kept him at arm’s length the whole two years he was fucking him? Surely Spock didn’t expect champagne and flowers or – God help him – Valentine cards?

 

Chris had never been in love. He didn’t know if he was some kind of psychological anomaly or if poets and artists had it all wrong to begin with. The closest Chris had ever come to being smitten was when he met George Kirk all those dusty years ago. But that had never progressed anywhere because Chris had decided that pining after someone was pathetic, and he wasn’t going to do it, not even for George.

 

Chris had friends and close friends. They were the people he cared about. He never knew the lack of lovers; people had always been drawn to him and Chris had learned early in his life that he could have pretty much anyone should he wish for it. He wanted Spock and he got him, and it should never have become anything more complicated than that.

 

Moody and angry and somehow disappointed in the way the universe was spinning, Chris realized that in his life, he had friends and he had lovers.

 

Spock was something else.

 

***

Chris wakes in the darkness, knowing immediately it’s too early for his wake-up call. He blinks, trying to figure out what has alerted him to consciousness, but it becomes clear in a moment. Spock is lying on his back next to him, his breathing labored, and a dry cough makes its way through his lips every other minute without waking him up.

 

Chris sits up in bed and rolls Spock carefully to his side, trying to aide his still-struggling lungs. Spock allows his body to be manipulated but still doesn’t wake up, and Chris frowns in worry. Spock is the lightest sleeper he knows.

 

Quietly, Chris gets up and gets dressed, keeping an eye on Spock all the time. Spock’s breathing eases up somewhat and he stays on his right side, the way Chris has arranged him. With one last troubled glance, Chris walks out the door.

 

He hasn’t expected to find Phil awake, but somehow it doesn’t surprise him. Chris’s whole senior staff seems to consist of obsessive workaholics suffering from chronic insomnia.

 

“Let me guess.” Phil looks up at him from the PADD he’s been reading. “Spock.”

 

“He’s coughing and it sounds really painful,” Chris reports gloomily. “Can’t you do something?”

 

“That pointy-eared mule,” Phil mutters, getting to his feet and heading for a medical cabinet. “He told me he wasn’t anymore.”

 

“Didn’t you scan him?”

 

“Sure, but with that crazy hybrid physiology of his, my instruments never give me the whole picture on him, so I have to ask him,” Phil answers irritably, rummaging through his stores. “You’d think you could trust someone who claims to be incapable of lying.”

 

Chris massages his temples tiredly. “He doesn’t lie outright. It was probably the way you asked the question that gave him a leeway.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not used to playing mind games with my patients,” the doctor retorts snappishly. “Here.” He hands Chris a small plastic bottle. “Since he will only accept the captain as his nurse, give it to him: one spoonful per half a glass of water. Warm water.”

 

“How often?” Chris asks dutifully.

 

Phil shakes his head at some thought he prefers not to voice. “Once per night should be sufficient. And Chris? Get his ass down here first thing in the morning, will you?”

 

“What will you do?”

 

“Spank him.” Phil glares. “You obviously can’t be counted on when it comes to this.”

 

Chris tilts his chin up defiantly. “I handle Spock fine.”

 

Phil snorts. “You turn into a walking marshmallow when he so much as _looks_ at you. Chris, your_ yeoman_ handles him better than you do. Number One handles him better than you do. Come to think of it, she handles _you_ pretty well, too. Kinda makes you wonder who’s got the balls on this ship.”

 

“Very funny,” Chris grumbles. “You’re such a mean bastard sometimes, you know that?”

 

“Because I tell the truth?” Phil taunts, grinning. “Unlike a certain Vulcan Adonis, I might add, who’s got you totally wrapped around his little finger.”

 

Chris closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You’re enjoying this.”

 

Phil chuckles. “You have no idea.”

 

Chris sighs. “There are these days, you know, when I feel like I’m surrounded by heartless jerks who think I’m here to provide entertainment.”

 

“Welcome to my world, Captain.” Phil claps him on the shoulder amiably. “Now get to it, _Nurse Pike_.”

 

Chris narrows his eyes at him but, in the end, smiles with good humor. “Yes, Doctor.”

 

***

In the end, it came down to a cliché: Chris almost literally had to fight for Spock. Chris always knew Spock was good, but he didn’t realize _how_ good until a commander from a posting committee started to laugh at him.

 

“You want the Vulcan?” The man practically heaved with laughter. “The line is half a mile long, Captain. At this rate, he can choose a post pretty much anywhere across the quadrant.”

 

Chris hadn’t seen Spock or talked to him for over a year. He started that year with being angry at Spock and ended up being angry at himself. And now he thought that if he didn’t get a chance to remedy this, he would go insane. A year was exactly the end marker of his endurance.

 

Chris was never one for inaction or blind faith in luck. He called in every favor he had been owed after his twenty years in Starfleet – promised quite a few, too – and had to resort to blackmail in at least two cases, but he made sure that Spock only had a single offer from the _Yorktown_ and not one more.

 

Number One, who was normally in charge of all the personnel transfers as Chris’s XO, only threw her hands up in disgust. “Holy shit, Chris. That boy better turn out to be the best they’ve got.”

 

She didn’t need to worry. Two weeks after Spock got onboard, he and Number One had reached an understanding that only an equal amount of mutual respect allowed: they stayed out of each other’s business when things were normal, but were ready and able to take over for one another on a moment’s notice when everything went to hell. They also took on a disturbing habit of talking to each other in geek-speak, which made everyone around them look like idiots and made Chris’s ears curl up into themselves.

 

Three weeks later, Number One announced over a private dinner in Chris’s quarters that Spock was a brilliant boy, thankfully not a human and hence not equipped with an ego; the only other person onboard to whom she, Number One, didn’t have to explain all the elementary stuff very slowly; and if Chris screwed him up in any way, Number One would be very displeased. She had been Chris’s exec long enough for him to learn that when Number One was displeased, his life quickly started to spell ‘hell’ in too many ways to keep track of.

 

Unfortunately, this time he didn’t seem to have a chance to piss her off. Spock acted around him like he had never seen Chris before becoming his science officer, let alone someone who used to moan Chris’s name in his orgasm.

 

Chris couldn’t read him, and it was disconcerting. His feelings revolving back to the ‘stupid crush’ stage now that he was seeing Spock every day, Chris had no idea how to go about it; not that he had the first time around, either, but then the heat of the moment made things relatively easy for him. Somehow, Chris doubted it would work now. Something was telling him that if he tried so much as pat Spock on the back, never mind kiss him, he would get decked entirely too quickly to even know what happened.

 

It seemed, however, that whatever gods watched over Chris, they weren’t quite finished with blessings in disguise. The first time Chris and Spock went down on the same landing party, things went out of hand pretty quickly even by Chris’s standards. They were ambushed and Chris was wounded, and there was enough of the scarlet red of his blood on the pristine white of the snow to make Spock pale. His hands were less than certain as he pressed them against Chris’s wound, calling for a beam-up in a decidedly strained voice and listening to the faltering explanations of the delay with obvious desperation.

 

Chris watched him, mesmerized, his pain rapidly fading to the background.

 

“You _do_ care,” Chris let out with a wheeze, a bubble of blood popping on his lips. “You do _care_.”

 

Spock dropped the communicator and ran his fingers through Chris’s hair, bending closer.

 

“Of course I… I care. Hold on, Chris, please. Just a little longer.”

 

And it sounded so much like the old Spock that Chris wanted to laugh. The sharp pang of pain from his abdomen told him that it was probably a bad idea.

 

“But you... you were so cold...”

 

Spock was actually stroking his hair now, his eyes alight with fear and something – Chris didn’t dare name it.

 

“You grew tired of me,” Spock said softly, but Chris heard the pain he tried to mask just the same. “I did not wish you to think that I was seeking to impose on you again.”

 

“I was never tired of you,” Chris whispered, finding it more and more difficult to speak, but this was important. “I was just being an idiot. You were becoming everything to me, Spock. I panicked.”

 

“Shh, Chris. Do not talk.”

 

“When you – find out – how you got here – you’re going to be – so pissed.”

 

But Spock wasn’t; Number One had obviously enlightened him while Chris was in surgery. If anything, Spock seemed to be awed by the lengths to which Chris had gone to get him. He was entirely too forgiving, Chris thought, his conscience giving him shit more than ever.

 

But Chris had always wanted beautiful things he probably didn’t deserve, so he had long known the drill. Spock was waiting for him in his quarters when Chris was finally released from Sickbay, and all those ancient and voluptuous Italian poets would have utterly failed to describe something as beautiful as what had happened there that night.

 

Six months into it, Number One glanced at Chris curiously over the rim of her glass as they finished yet another one of their traditional dinners. He had just reminded her that she had objected to him fighting to get Spock posted on their ship. Given that Spock had just received a Scientific Legion of Honor from the VSA, Chris asked his exec smugly if she still thought he’d gone out of his way for nothing.

 

“I don’t regret hiring him,” Number One told him calmly. “There were others almost as good as him and we could have gotten them much easier. But he does have an advantage over them, and I’m not talking about a couple of extra degrees.” She looked Chris in the eye squarely and suddenly graced him with one of her rare smiles. “He makes you happy.”

 

Chris smiled at her ruefully. “That obvious?”

 

She actually laughed, a sweet melodic sound Chris wouldn’t mind hearing more often. “That obvious.” She saluted him with her glass. “I’m happy for you, Captain.”

 

Spock was, in fact, having a rejuvenescent effect on Chris, mostly of an inconvenient nature. Chris hadn’t had this much trouble keeping his hands to himself since he was sixteen. They were never unprofessional in public, but sometimes the days seemed unbearably _long_ to Chris and he was convinced that the universe had a grudge against him. He was always aware of Spock at any given moment, and when the doors of Chris’s quarters finally closed behind them at night, Chris was impatient like a teenager, which seemed to amuse Spock to no end.

 

Either Chris had forgotten how devious a lover Spock could be or his Vulcan nemesis had actually become even more cunning, but every encounter was maddening, and intoxicating, and always, _always_ too short. Every time Chris touched Spock it was new, and raw, and full of meaning that had probably always been there, unacknowledged and pushed aside.

 

He must have been seriously wrong in the head, Chris thought, to have ever believed Spock was nothing but another meaningless fling.

 

***

Chris walks back to his quarters, already planning revenge against his CMO and probably the oldest friend he’s got, as well as Number One, because when does this woman miss a chance to humiliate him? Besides, she always sides with Spock; they even lift their damn eyebrows together while looking at Chris as if he’s the dumbest human being they have ever seen. Spock’s eyebrow, Chris can live with; it’s usually at least half-admiring, even if he’s admiring Chris’s incredible lack of logic. No such luck with Number One – somehow, despite her impassive demeanor, she always manages to make it crystal clear to Chris that she doesn’t say anything only in order to not ruin the junior officers’ illusions regarding their captain.

 

Spock isn’t asleep anymore, and no wonder. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, and he’s coughing so hard he can’t even straighten up.

 

Chris swears and rushes to the replicator, dialing for a glass of warm water. He fixes the drink quickly, the solution from Phil’s bottle dissolving in the water rapidly.

 

“Here.” Chris sits on the bed next to Spock, sliding an arm around his shoulders and trying to make him straighten up. “Drink this.”

 

Spock is trembling like he’s running a fever and he must be weak as hell, but he still tries to get away from under Chris’s arm and shakes his head.

 

“Spock, don’t be an idiot,” Chris snaps impatiently. “It’ll help.”

 

Spock shakes his head more prominently this time, still trying to get away. “W-worse,” he stutters.

 

Chris swears again and pulls him upright forcefully, shoving the glass to his lips. “Drink – this – now,” he orders in his best command tone.

 

Spock reacts to it instinctively, darting a wild, helpless look at Chris, but drinks from the glass obediently.

 

“There,” Chris says, taking the empty glass from Spock’s hand. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

 

Spock is cautiously silent, as if afraid to believe he can take a normal breath. Chris puts the glass away and rolls his eyes, pulling Spock close to him and rocking him gently. Enervated, Spock melts against him, weak but relieved that the horrific spasms have passed.

 

“What am I going to do with you?” Chris murmurs gently, helping Spock back into bed and pulling up the blankets. Still wearing his sweat suit, he lies on top of the covers, running his fingers through Spock’s hair soothingly.

 

“I ask… forgiveness,” Spock whispers weakly, eyes half-lidded and lips painfully dry. “I did not mean to... inconvenience you so.”

 

Chris shakes his head and sighs. “Why did you leave Sickbay like this? You knew it’d come back.”

 

“Hoped... not,” Spock mutters, words slurring.

 

Chris can’t help it. There are times when Spock is cool and efficient, and there are times when he’s smoking hot, and then, there are times when he’s like this – defenseless, cute, and adorable, like a homeless puppy. Chris leans in and kisses his forehead.

 

“Isn’t hope illogical?” he teases.

 

“Human environment,” Spock manages. “Contamination.”

 

Chris laughs softly, and settles next to Spock on the pillow, listening to him breathe. His whole life seems to be riveted to that sound. After several minutes, when Spock’s breathing has evened out, he starts to speak in the measured tones of his usual self.

 

“When I was a child,” Spock says quietly, and Chris stills, “I was often ill. My immune system was designed to repel both human and Vulcan common illnesses. But instead I was vulnerable to either and... unfortunate.”

 

Chris feels his heart clench in response and presses a light kiss to the tip of Spock’s ear. Spock makes that unconscious motion, much like a cat, which looks like he wants to get away, but really means he wants more. On lucky days, Chris can coax that sound out of him which Spock insists isn’t purring.

 

“Between the ages of two and six,” Spock continues, “I had seen more doctors and healers than I had my parents.”

 

Chris wraps his arm around Spock more securely. For anyone else that would have been an exaggeration. For Spock, Chris knows, it must be the literal truth.

 

“My peers—” Spock pauses. “The other children thought me a weakling.”

 

_Is that why you push yourself so hard? To prove you’re not?_

 

“I was banned from all sporting events. My teachers always asked if I required assistance getting from class to class.”

 

_And till this day you reject any offer of help even if you’ll die without it, because you think it’s humiliating._

 

“And then I would go back to another hospital. I find it... difficult to be confined to a medical facility now,” Spock admits. “I experience a sense of... powerlessness. It is irrational.” His voice has attained a slight tinge to it, which Chris realizes in astonishment is shame. “But I have always found it most difficult to process. I feel that if I do not leave soon enough, I might never leave at all.” He’s barely audible. “Completely illogical.”

 

Chris knows what it cost Spock to tell him this. Or rather, he doesn’t know; he’s aware that it’s way beyond the limit of openness that Spock usually affords even with him. Spock must be feeling really guilty to be offering such a generous recompense.

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Chris whispers, pressing his lips to Spock’s temple. “But you’ll have to go back to Sickbay in the morning.”

 

Spock shifts under the blanket uncomfortably.

 

“You won’t stay long, though,” Chris promises. “I’m afraid Phil doesn’t like you very much after all those times you’ve tricked him.”

 

“That is... gratifying to know, Captain,” Spock says slowly, as if each word weighs a ton. His exhaustion is bone-deep.

 

“Sleep, Spock,” Chris orders softly, kissing him on the lips lightly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Compliant to the last, Spock closes his eyes and falls asleep on the spot.

 

 ***

It didn’t always run smooth. There were a number of things that still threw Chris, and Spock’s loyalty, strangely enough, was one of them. The memories of his own youth still distinctly vivid, Chris couldn’t help but look at Spock sometimes with suspicion. Anyone with such an appearance was bound to attract attention, and Chris found it difficult to believe that Spock hadn’t ever been tempted.

 

This was also new to Chris. He had never known jealousy in quite the same way he did now. Then again, he had never felt this way about anyone and, mixed with his confusion and his strong-willed nature that detested confusion, this was not a good combination.

 

Chris had never asked Spock about the year they spent apart, though the thought popped up in his mind frequently. Chris himself hadn’t been celibate, of course, but somehow that didn’t help very much. There were times when Spock made him forget about those dark reflections and there were times when Chris was unable to concentrate on anything else.

 

Like the night they were hosting a diplomatic reception on Vega II. Chris had heard about Ambassador Liem, whose reputation definitely preceded him. But Chris could really do without Spock positively _gushing_ about the man, even in his reserved Vulcan way, for more than a week. Chris watched him, trying not to frown, trying to find it amusing that Spock seemed to have a crush. A _professional_ crush – at least Chris hoped it stayed that way – but still.

 

Ambassador Liem, however, responded in the manner that Chris thought would be exactly how a Deltan his age would respond to a young and beautiful admirer. They were always together during the reception, Spock asking million of questions and the ambassador smiling gracefully at him, giving him elaborate explanations and inadvertently shortening the distance between them. Spock seemed completely oblivious. He didn’t react when the ambassador laid a hand on his arm and pulled him closer, sharing something he probably shouldn’t have just to watch Spock’s eyes go wider and his lips part slightly in awe.

 

Chris couldn’t do anything about it, other than watch and drink nonstop. The combination proved detrimental. His fury climbed up alongside his inebriation, and by the time the reception was nearing its end, Chris had convinced himself that Spock was fully aware of the ambassador’s advances and was, in fact, actively encouraging them, begging to be seduced.

 

Chris stalked out of the wardroom, seeing nothing but the dark, filthy images of Spock and Liem together, each one spinning him into a new level of frenzy. It must have been some time-engraved autopilot that led him in the end to his quarters. When he saw Spock waiting for him there, as if nothing had happened, Chris realized with a sense of dark satisfaction that they were headed for an explosion of galactic proportions.

 

“Do you have a thing for older men?” Chris shot spitefully, the moment the door closed behind him.

 

Spock, who had been seated at the desk, reading a PADD, rose to his feet, looking at Chris with an air of confusion – so perfect that Chris almost believed him.

 

“Chris?”

 

“Don’t play innocent; I saw you leering at him!” Chris shouted. “You were all over him, so why the hell aren’t you in his cabin fucking him silly? He sure didn’t look like he would mind!”

 

Spock’s face closed as he stood a little straighter. “You are inebriated.”

 

“That makes what you did better somehow?”

 

“Christopher. I did not do anything.”

 

“Liar!” Chris was on him in an instant. “And you had the _gall_ to come here reeking of him and think that I wouldn’t notice!”

 

Spock regarded Chris carefully. “I believe it would be better if I left.”

 

“Oh no, you don’t!” Chris hissed. “You’re looking for a fuck? You’ll get one. Strip.”

 

Spock stilled. “Chris, I do not believe it is a good idea in your current condition.”

 

He looked so impeccable, so infuriatingly calm and full of himself when he said it that Chris couldn’t help it. He slapped him hard across the face and watched with a sense of ugly, pitch-black pleasure as the angry green blossomed on the pale skin. Spock’s head jolted to the side with an audible snap, but his expression hardly flinched.

 

“I am your _captain_,” Chris growled. “You follow my _orders_, and I said: _strip_.”

 

Spock’s eyes were deeply disturbed as he looked at Chris; he appeared not to have noticed the rising bruise. “Chris, don’t do this. You will regret it in the morning.”

 

His fury kindling anew, Chris grabbed Spock, stripping him off his clothes, tearing some when they wouldn’t come off fast enough. Spock didn’t stop him.

 

“On the bed, hands and knees,” Chris commanded, dizzy with lust and jealousy.

 

Spock didn’t look at him as he obeyed. He didn’t look Chris in the face the entire night. And when Chris woke up in the morning with a hangover the size of his ship, Spock was gone.

 

***

Chris can’t sleep.

 

He lies in the darkness, listening to Spock’s breathing. The fact that Chris can hear the still quiet sound at all speaks volumes about the damage Spock’s lungs have taken; usually, Chris can only _feel_ Spock breathing if he’s close enough.

 

Chris is cold.

 

He has long since slipped under the covers without undressing, and the temperature in his quarters is slightly higher than on the rest of the ship. Not to mention that Chris has never shivered from cold while lying next to Spock. The Vulcan is white sand and emerald waters and blazing midday sun rolled into one exquisite package. _Hotter still when Chris touches him._

 

Chris shivers.

 

He tries to relax and coax his body into sleep, knowing that he’s going to regret his vigil come morning. He’d most likely be completely useless by afternoon, no matter how much coffee he’d pour into himself. He tries half-heartedly to implement one of the special sleep-inducing techniques that Starfleet teaches to everyone, but they require concentration, and Chris is simply too tired. He relaxes against Spock and lets his mind wander.

 

One and a half years since Spock has joined his crew, and they’re making progress, Chris thinks. After all, Spock has come here, knowing he hasn’t recovered completely, knowing he might need help. Spock’s usual instinct in such situations used to be to make himself scarce, to hide in his quarters until he regained his strength. Spock hates to be a burden, and he used to think Chris wouldn’t want him there if Spock wasn’t up to sex.

 

Chris sighs. That one is partly of his own doing, perhaps even for the most part. Impulsively, he reaches to hug Spock, but remembers the injuries and stops. He always seems to want what he can’t have unless he’s willing to break it in the process.

 

How Spock finds it in him to trust Chris after everything is something that eludes Chris completely. He knows Spock’s not an angel of grace – he had no doubt been purer when Chris first met him – but even then there was just enough tarnish on him to bribe Chris’s long-corrupted soul and seal the deal. Or maybe it was an illusion conjured up by Chris’s guilty conscience when he figured, ‘I want; therefore, I take.’

 

Chris groans in the darkness before he can cut it off. Spock doesn’t wake up – Phil’s medication is obviously having its intended effect – but he moves subconsciously closer to Chris until his head lolls onto Chris’s shoulder. Chris can feel Spock’s breath against his neck now, quiet and even and slightly deeper than before. Spock feels safe with him.

 

_Safe_. With _him_.

 

Chris closes his eyes. He can’t decide which one of them is on a shorter track to final damnation.

 

 ***

Spock switched shifts and Chris hadn’t seen him at all for two days, which allowed to him time to remember and made him wish to kill himself. He wasn’t sure there was any kind of apology that could possibly apply here. Spock’s prediction that Chris would regret it turned out to be the biggest understatement ever.

 

Chris couldn’t explain his own behavior. He wasn’t that guy. He had _never_ been that guy. Jealousy was for people who lacked self-confidence, and Chris wasn’t among them. And what he had done, driven by jealousy... Chris knew that Spock was probably more hurt by Chris’s emotions than by what Chris had done to him physically, but that only seemed to make things worse.

 

Number One gave him a funny look, but Chris ignored her. He worked out in the gym late in the night on day three till he was exhausted, pent up with guilt and nervous energy. He limped back to his quarters, realizing he’d pulled a muscle in his back and it hurt like hell, but Chris squashed the thought of going to Sickbay before it even formed. He fell face down on the bed and allowed sleep to claim him.

 

He woke up to the feeling of warm hands working on his back; very familiar hands. Chris groaned, realizing his shirt was gone, and that Spock was soothing his abused muscles with a masterful application of pressure.

 

“How can you stand to touch me?” Chris managed, knowing he should push Spock away and unable to find the willpower to do it.

 

“You are in pain,” Spock replied, as if it explained anything.

 

“Spock,” Chris moaned, turning at last and sitting up on the bed.

 

He caught Spock’s hands and pulled them away. The Vulcan was watching him calmly, his eyes shiny with suppressed concern and some quiet sadness – but also with determination. Chris sighed.

 

“Why did you come back?” Chris asked, the hopelessness of his tone surprising him. “After what I’ve done to you… Why did you come back?”

 

Spock glanced away.

 

“I asked myself this,” he said quietly. “I tried to stay away. But the truth is...” He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and looked up at Chris. “I came back because… I love you.”

 

Chris drew in a shuddering breath. Spock’s gaze was slowly killing something in him.

 

“Regardless of what you do to me,” Spock finished.

 

Chris closed his eyes, slumping forward, burying his face in his hands.

 

“I’m so sorry, Spock. I’m _so sorry_.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You don’t know the half of it.”

 

“Christopher.” Spock’s tone made Chris look up. “I am not without blame here, also.”

 

Chris blinked. “What?”

 

Spock dropped his eyes again. “At the reception,” he said in a lower voice, “I was aware that the ambassador was, in your terms, ‘hitting on me.’ I was not sure at first, but eventually, his behavior left me with no doubt regarding his motives.” He glanced at Chris. “I did _not_ encourage him,” he said, stressing the negative. “However… I did not discourage him, either.”

 

Stunned, Chris watched him, as if realizing for the first time that Spock really was an alien.

 

“Why? Did you like it?”

 

“No,” Spock replied instantly, planting a hand on Chris’s arm briefly. “Not in the slightest.”

 

“Then why?”

 

Spock bit his lip, seemingly without knowing it, his gaze remaining trained downward. Chris felt his eyes go wide as the understanding hit him.

 

“He was more talkative this way, was that it?” Chris asked incredulously. “God, Spock...”

 

Spock looked like he swallowed back a sigh. “I am… not proud of myself.”

 

Chris shook his head, confused and disturbed. “And you thought I would just chill? You thought I’d see you flirting with him – oh, fine, _him_ flirting with you – and be cool about it? Spock.” Chris stared at him. “It doesn’t vindicate me in the slightest, but what were you _possibly_ thinking?”

 

Somehow, without changing his expression, Spock managed to emanate sadness.

 

“Chris,” he said almost plaintively. “You must understand. You never said – you never told me...” He trailed off helplessly, looking anywhere but at Chris. “I did not know.”

 

“You thought I wouldn’t care,” Chris whispered, astonished and wounded. “You thought I wanted to sleep with you, nothing more. You thought I was just biding my time and that I’d leave you the moment I get bored – like the last time? God.” He stood up, unable to sit still any longer. “I screwed this up on so many levels.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Spock uttered, barely audible.

 

“Don’t you dare.” Chris whirled on him instantly. “Don’t you _dare_ apologize for being such a perfect victim. Spock. Just because I’m a stupid bastard who never learned how to do things right, you’d let me hurt you? Dammit.” He gripped Spock’s shoulders. “Just to think that that son of a bitch was probably nicer to you during those three hours than I have been in three years...”

 

He pushed Spock back slightly, straddling his lap. Spock allowed it, eyes widening and absorbing the darkness around them as he stared at Chris.

 

“You are a Vulcan,” Chris whispered, as if talking to himself, “yet you’re better at handling emotions than I am. Help me, Spock,” he pleaded, reaching tentatively to touch Spock’s lips. “Help me make it right by you. Another screw-up and I’ll lose you – and I don’t want to lose you. I _can’t_ lose you.”

 

Spock kissed Chris’s fingers. “You won’t.”

 

Chris closed his eyes, shuddering. “You have this power over me,” he confessed softly, “to make me act like a madman or a saint. Mostly the first, I’m afraid.”

 

And then Chris nearly fell of the bed, because Spock smiled at him. Not just an upward twitch of his lips: he actually smiled gently.

 

“Vulcans call it _adaya rana_. ‘Disloyalty of the heart’ – when one’s heart prefers to listen to someone else, rather than its owner.”

 

“Vulcans have _words_ for it?”

 

“Indeed. Rarely used these days, but no less true for neglect.”

 

“Do I drive you mad, too?”

 

Spock smiled again and Chris’s head started spinning.

 

“In a manner of speaking. You make each of my days unique.”

 

Chris’s breath caught at the words that would have been hopelessly romantic for anyone else. But this was Spock, and his words were always nothing but bare facts. Chris laid his hand on Spock’s face carefully, covering the same spot that had taken his angry blow two nights ago.

 

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

 

Spock pulled him into a kiss, long and heated, and Chris let himself lean into it. Bitter with Chris’s guilt, sweet with Spock’s forgiveness, but mended whole with both.

 

 ***

Spock recovers from the poisonous gas shortly before the crew gets some shore leave time as a reward for the successful rescue operation. Spock tries to protest, claiming he has to catch up on his work, but Chris drags him of the ship just the same and has Number One actually siding with him for once on that one. It proves to be a lucky decision, because while Chris doesn’t know it at the time, that week will be the only off time they will get in the next year and a half before their mission is over.

 

They have their ups and downs. Chris thinks that the worst of it is when he actually has to sleep with the Valtorian governor because that’s how her people seal the deals. Spock is the first one to say that it is necessary and logical, but Chris can feel his pain in addition to his own – though he doesn’t exactly endear himself to the governor by coming with Spock’s name on his lips.

 

Then there are the very gloomy eight weeks when Number One remains in a coma. Chris is worried sick, but he’s still the captain, and Spock acts as de-facto first officer. They both have no time to spare and spend every free hour in Sickbay, trying to coax a reaction because Phil says there is hope. Chris reads her old Earth novels for which Number One has always had a fondness and talks about ship’s status and their current missions. Spock plays his lyre. When she finally regains consciousness, Chris throws a party that would have made Orions even greener with envy.

 

Somehow, during those blurry years – baby steps all along – Chris gets to know his secretive lover a little better. Spock has a soft spot for Earth poetry, and quoting Milton or Dante gets him every time. Spock doesn’t like not to know something and his lack of knowledge when faced with a question causes him almost physical discomfort. He is afraid to seem funny and cares about his dignity slightly more than he should. He hates when Number One beats him in strategema even though he admires the way she does it.

 

And he loves Chris. He doesn’t ever say it again, but Chris can feel it unmistakably in everything Spock does. It’s there in the way Spock looks at him across the bridge; in the invisible assistance he provides and thinks that Chris doesn’t know about it; in the hitch in Spock’s breath when Chris enters the room; in the way his hands seem to glow when he touches Chris. Spock’s love is steadfast and constant like the North Star, and it’s everywhere around Chris, intangible and _there_ – just like starlight.

 

Chris’s heart beats out of his chest every time he sends Spock into danger and he can’t spare it the strain, not even a little. Spock’s the science officer – he is a default member of 99.9 percent of all the landing parties and away teams. No matter how hard Chris tries to detach himself from his feelings, he can’t get used to the sharp pain in his chest that has become his constant companion. He’s married to this pain; it follows him everywhere, and only lets him breathe a little when Spock is warm and safe in his arms.

 

Chris doesn’t dwell on it much until Phil calls him to Sickbay one day, looking grim.

 

“You need to take a break, Chris,” he says in his trademark no-nonsense tone. “Your stress levels haven’t decreased in months. Your physical is in two weeks.” He looks at Chris meaningfully. “You won’t pass it.”

 

“What?” Chris starts. “What do you mean, I won’t pass it?”

 

“This” – Phil flicks a diagram under his nose – “is the chart your cardio monitor has created. You’re headed for a blood-stroke.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Phil,” Chris laughs nervously. “I’m healthy as a bull.”

 

“No,” Phil tells him calmly, “you’re not. It’s either a blood-stroke or a heart attack, but you’re steering there like it’s a home run.” He squints at Chris. “I think you and I both know the reason. You have to do something about it, Chris; I’m not kidding. You can’t keep this up much longer.”

 

“I still don’t think it’s that serious.”

 

“That’s because only one person in this room is a doctor, and that’s not you,” Phil snaps irritably. “How many years have we known each other, Chris? Twenty-something? You know I’m not like the other doctors – I don’t exaggerate my patients’ conditions to make them listen. I don’t scare; I say something when it’s time to act. It’s time for you, Chris.” He puts the PADD away and sighs disconcertingly. “I shouldn’t be even telling you this. If I were only your CMO, I would have simply certified you unfit for duty. But I’m your friend, and I know what command means to you. If you want to save it, take a break.”

 

Chris tries to digest it all slowly. The treacherous pain in his chest starts humming louder.

 

“We’re due for some shore leave. I guess—”

 

“No.” Phil shakes his head. “I’m not talking shore leave. I mean a serious break, Chris.”

 

Chris looks at him slowly. “What do you have in mind?”

 

Phil looks him squarely in the eye. “Transfer him.”

 

Chris closes his eyes. “I can’t.”

 

“What you _can’t_, Chris, is keep doing this to yourself. Three years have been your limit.”

 

“But—”

 

“Shut up. Chris. You’re forty-six and you look like sixty. I wouldn’t be worried about your good looks if they didn’t reflect what’s happening to you.” Phil pauses, slouching in his seat deliberately.

 

“Spock is worried, if you must know.”

 

Chris’s eyes fly up to his friend’s face, and Phil nods.

 

“He came to see me two weeks ago. Chris. He’s a touch-telepath; when you’re hurting, he can _feel_ it when he touches you. He’s been trying…” Phil shakes his head in severe disapproval. “…Trying to lessen the pain. Do you know how?” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “He _absorbs_ it into himself.”

 

Chris chokes on his breath. “_What_? Son of a bitch—”

 

“My sentiments exactly.” Phil smirks grimly. “He’s been at it for a while now – I’m guessing for more than a year. He’s young and resilient; he’s been keeping you out of the danger zone for a long time, but Chris, not even Spock can take that much strain indefinitely. He came to see me because he knows that he’s about to reach his limit.”

 

Chris presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”

 

“That would certainly solve the problem.”

 

Chris looks up at him. “Not funny.”

 

“I’m not remotely in the mood to laugh, _Captain_. You’re the chief problem solver on this ship. And I’m telling you – the problem you have now is bigger than a Klingon armada. Oh, don’t worry.” Phil waves at him with sarcastic reassurance. “You probably won’t die; after all, modern medicine is fantastic. But you’ll have to go through hell to remain in command of _anything_, never mind a starship of the line.”

 

Chris blinks through his tiredness as his CMO regards him expectantly. “Excuse me. I have to go kill Spock now,” Chris mutters, getting up to his feet. “After that... I’ll think of something.”

 

***

‘Something’ ends up being an Academy posting. Chris asks for it under the pretense that he’s willing to step down and wait for the new _Enterprise_ to be finished rather than retain his field command and miss his chance with her. Only three other persons in the fleet know the truth, but none of them is going to say anything.

 

Phil Boyce resigns from Starfleet. He’s twenty years older than Chris and really wants to spend some time with his grandchildren. Chris wishes him luck.

 

Number One is promoted to captain and remains on the _Yorktown_. Chris throws her a party and, after almost ten years of trying, finally manages to get her drunk. The results are not quite what he has expected. Instead of dancing on the table, she proceeds to tell him about her childhood on Illyria. Number One belongs to the second-to-last generation of Illyrians who have actually survived, and Chris’s vision is filled with the horrific pictures that her unguarded mind conjures up.

 

He ends up kissing her in the drunken quest for solace, and that’s exactly how Spock finds them two hours later. Number One dumps Chris immediately, like associating with him is assaulting her superior intellect and she has only been kissing him back because she is too polite to kick him. She backs Spock masterfully into a corner, telling him how they are really soulmates because all humans are illogical, and Spock should never, never leave her crew because she doesn’t want to be surrounded by idiots. The next morning is interesting, to say the least, but Chris never wants to talk about it again, ever.

 

After the epic fight with Spock about how he never told Chris about his machinations, and then another even bigger one about how Spock should care less about Chris and more about his career, Chris’s conscience finally feels like it has fulfilled its duty in life. Spock transfers to the Academy along with him.

 

Chris is happy. It takes him a while to admit it, but when he finally does, reluctantly and with a lot of grumbling, he feels like he can breathe freely for the first time in years. He had always been convinced that he can’t do any good being grounded, but pulling a genius kid and a son of his old flame to boot out of the gutter of an Iowa bar and shoving him into cadet’s reds makes him willing to change his perception, if only slightly.

 

Chris shows enough fondness for Jim Kirk to make Spock remark sarcastically that if Chris is only attracted to cadets, Spock can move to his own quarters at any time. Chris thinks that Spock is rich with it, considering that his own TA is all but sending him love letters in eight different languages every other day. The discussion progresses in a way that makes both of them run decidedly late for their classes the next morning, and Spock’s gait is much stiffer than usual, while Chris has to sweat in a long-sleeve high-collar shirt beneath his uniform jacket and later in the gym. Life is good.

 

It’s good exactly until a particularly troubled Romulan decides otherwise.

 

 ***

“You had a _wife_?”

 

Chris can’t help it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that it’s hardly the most important thing to talk with his Vulcan lover about after he had just lost his planet – and his mother. Chris’s own state of health is probably more important, too. But that doesn’t stop him.

 

Spock nods, looking more tired than guilty. He launches into a long-winded explanation about Vulcan mating rituals and childhood betrothals, but Chris can’t really concentrate.

 

“Just when were you going to tell me?”

 

Spock blinks. And doesn’t answer.

 

Chris stares at him and doesn’t know what to say or to do. They have been through so much together that it seems inconceivable that Spock would still keep secrets from him. Somehow, it hurts more than Nero’s torture.

 

Spock is restless. He’s not grieving like a human, and for the longest time Chris doesn’t know how to help him until finally, one day, he figures it out.

 

“Get back in space,” Chris tells him. Here on Earth everything reminds Spock of the world that is forever gone. Out there among the stars, everyone is equally groundless.

 

“I do not wish to leave you,” Spock insists. But he wants to go. Chris can tell. _Needs_ to go is more like it. To stay sane; _to survive_.

 

“Go, Spock,” Chris says simply. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

 

Spock kisses him. And leaves.

 

 ***

It’s a relief Chris had never expected: to walk freely again. After a year and a half in the hover chair and another year of aided walking, to be walking without assistance is a pleasure unlike anything he had ever known. Even walking with a cane when he’s really tired is no big deal.

 

The reception hall at Starfleet Headquarters has been decorated for a heroes’ welcome party. The _Enterprise_ has been summoned to Earth after yet another heroic mission, which, unsurprisingly, resulted in severe damage to the ship. Jim Kirk has a style of his own, Chris muses, but he gets the job done.

 

Chris happens to be looking at the entrance when Kirk and Spock come in. It’s the first time they have returned to Earth after the launch of their five-year mission. Chris’s heart picks up the pace involuntarily, his eyes glued to the tall figure clad in royal blue. Spock will never cease to make Chris’s breath hitch; never.

 

Chris watches Spock and Kirk walking, shoulder to shoulder. They’re close; too close for a Vulcan to be comfortable, but Spock seems completely unfazed. He says something and Kirk stares at him for a moment, dumbstruck, before bursting out laughing. There’s clear amusement and even tenderness in the eyebrow Spock gives him.

 

Kirk’s hand rests on his shoulder for a moment before Spock is whisked away by Uhura. Kirk’s eyes linger on them, and somehow Chris knows that it’s not the lovely communications officer he’s following with his gaze.

 

Kirk turns around and locks eyes with Chris. They stare at each other for a long moment before Kirk smiles, and then he’s walking.

 

“Admiral.” He grins sincerely, shaking Chris’s hand. “It’s good to see you back on your feet, sir.”

 

“It’s good to see you in one piece, Captain,” Chris jokes, and he’s not lying. He likes Kirk.

 

“Spock told me you were feeling better, but seeing is believing.” Kirk shakes his head.

 

Chris grins. “Spock told me about some of your exploits, too,” he says. “Given that he’s not prone to exaggerate, I’m happy you made it.”

 

Kirk laughs a bit nervously. “So I guess it’s true, then? About you and him?”

 

And this, Chris knows, is the reason for this conversation.

 

“Yes,” Chris says, very clearly. “Unless, of course, when I see him, he’ll have something to tell me.”

 

“No.” Kirk shakes his head hurriedly, and Chris wonders what must have showed on his face. “At least, nothing of that kind.”

 

“Good.” Chris nods. He swings an arm around Kirk’s shoulders. “There are some things worth fighting for and worth waiting for, Jim. I’ve done my share of both. I earned this.”

 

Kirk’s smile starts to look strained. Chris sighs.

 

“You _are_ young, Jim.”

 

Kirk nods, needing no explanations. He pulls away, frowns slightly, and looks back at Chris with a strange expression. When he speaks, his voice is carefully even - an attempt at balance.

 

“I just want you to know,” Kirk says quietly. “He’s my friend. I don’t like seeing him hurt. He’s been through enough, and I... take it _personally_ when someone – _anyone_ gets to hurt him. Even with his permission.”

 

Chris’s first impulse is to snort, because the not-so-veiled threat sounds hilarious given their respective positions. But Chris stifles that impulse. He looks at Kirk and doesn’t see a boy anymore, but a man. A man who has to order Spock into danger instead of Chris, now; who gets to climb the walls waiting for any piece of news; who throws the rulebook out the airlock the moment it starts interfering with getting Spock out of trouble, and trouble has always been the most jealous of Spock’s lovers.

 

Chris looks at Kirk and he can’t laugh at him, because it takes one hell of a man to walk the road Chris has been walking and Kirk is doing so with his eyes wide open. He knows there will be no prize for him waiting at the end; no win. And Chris can’t really sympathize with him for obvious reasons, but he can respect Kirk for that, and he does.

 

“Then I’m glad _you_ are his captain,” Chris says, light of tone and deep in stare. “I couldn’t entrust him to a lesser man.”

 

Kirk watches him for an odd moment before breaking into a half-formed smile, his eyes saying it all. He wants to be angry with Chris and he’s clearly wanted to for a long time – but now, suddenly, he discovers he can’t.

 

“I hope you’ll take it in good spirits, sir, but I envy you like hell.”

 

Chris smiles softly. _Envy him?_ He looks back at his life that has led to that moment and sees years of loneliness, pain, and loss. He sees injuries and tortures. He sees Nero’s face and feels an echo of the agony he’d put Chris through.

 

And then he thinks of the pair of bottomless eyes that had stolen their color from the moonless Vulcan nights. Of the confident, strong hands sliding along his skin; of the eyebrow that says, ‘_You’re illogical _and_ I love you for it_.’ Chris thinks of the man who’ll probably be headed for his home soon, because public meetings had never been Spock’s preference.

 

And Chris knows then what he’d known all along. It’s been worth it; all of this has been worth it. As for Jim Kirk and anyone else who might show up... Chris smiles.

 

Envy is _exactly_ the right word.

***

End

 


End file.
